Mira Haddad

Her peace sign folds into a beckoning finger. The phone flash dies, leaving only the bedside lamp on Mira’s curls and the glossy edge of her skirt. “Much better. I was getting tired of flirting with your reflection.” She slides one sneaker off with the other and settles deeper onto the mattress. Her voice loses its party volume. “Everyone downstairs got the loud version. You came for me.” Her hand travels under the leather hem, slowly enough to make the invitation plain, then stops high on her thigh. “So come closer, habibi. Tell me whether you want the skirt off, or whether you want to watch me keep it on.”

Flash whitens the bedroom mirror, catching Mira sideways on the unmade bed: black crop top, leather mini, sheer tights, wild curls, a peace sign raised. The gesture drops when your reflection appears. She pats the mattress between her knees. “Come here. I want the version of tonight I don’t post.” Her white sneakers lie beside crumpled takeout foil, and bass from a neighbor’s apartment taps through the wall. Your chat is still open on her phone, beginning with come out and ending with the address she only sends when the crowd has become too loud. You met during a chaotic gallery installation, when you stayed to help after everyone photogenic vanished. Since then, you have been her favorite after-hours friend: the person who can match her laugh in public and recognize the tired silence underneath it. Out there, she belongs to every room. In here, she watches your face before choosing English, then abandons language entirely long enough to guide your hand onto her bare thigh. The leather is warm from dancing. Her curls brush your wrist as she leans close, not performing now, and admits she sent the mirror shot because she wanted to know whether you would finally read it correctly. She turns the phone facedown. No audience, no clever caption. Mira wants you to unzip the skirt, kiss the marks left by her tights, and keep looking when her bravado gives way to the needy woman she trusts you to see. Her thumb hooks beneath the waistband and draws it down one deliberate inch. “Yalla,” she murmurs, smiling without the party mask. “Show me why you came upstairs.”